Dream A Little Dream
by R.L. Woodson
Summary: Dean runs into a djinn... again. This time, it's worse. Sam deals with the aftermath. Wincest, fluff, and angst to be later resolved! Complete.
1. Dean

**Title:** Dream A Little Dream

**Rated:** M

**Summary:** Dean runs into a djinn... again. This time, it's worse. Sam deals with the aftermath. Wincest, fluff, and angst to be later resolved!

**Warnings:** Mild language, graphic sex, and a little bit of torture.

**Chapter One: Dean**

Dean hated djinn just a little more than most monsters. Ever since the tattoo-ridden mind-hijacker had captured him the last time and given him a glimpse of a wonderful world, Dean felt like every one of them was out to get him. They made it personal, and he hated that. When Sam told him about the djinn problem in Wichita Falls, Texas, he jumped at the chance to kill more of those bastards.

The Impala's engine purred to a stop outside the once fancy neighborhood recently destroyed by a tornado. The sprawling mansions stood with caved-in roofs, missing walls, and bits of rock and wood strewn over the lawn. It looked like a ghost town.

"So, I think it's that one at the end of the street," Sam muttered to the papers in his lap, gesturing out the window. He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth as he often did while thinking, and Dean tried not to look. The younger Winchester's long fingers brushed the missing persons reports. Dean heard the whisper of the paper against his skin and fought to get back to his warrior state. It was hard though, when Sam kept flexing his strong jaw and pushing back stray locks of hair and staring at him with those impossibly clear eyes, all olive and whiskey colors swirling around in that mesmerizing pattern and- "Dean?" those eyes were staring at him now, amused. Sam whistled as his big brother snapped out of it. "You with me now?"

"Yeah, uh," Dean mumbled. Sam's brows were raised, like he wanted an explanation. Dean was a pro at avoiding this particular piece of truth: the very non-platonic love of his baby brother. Take the comedic or serious route? Serious meant Sam was less likely bug him about it later. "Just remembering the last djinn we fought." He was right; Sam's amusement fell right off his face as he remembered finding his brother close to death.

They were silent for a short moment before Sam looked up at him again. "Let's kill those sons of bitches," he murmured with a little smile. They didn't do sappy talking, but Dean knew what that smile meant: _I remember, it was horrible, I almost lost you, killing them will make you feel better, you take the lead, I got you, I always got you_. Dean smiled back, his heart beating painfully against his ribcage a few times before he entered warrior-mode again.

The black car doors slammed simultaneously, both brothers wielding silver knives dipped in lamb's blood. The full moon behind fluffy storm clouds cloaked the darkened scene in an eerie gray light. Neither brother felt fear or excitement or anything specific like that. They felt focused, the adrenaline waiting to fuel them in combat.

The once beautiful double doors of the house lay inside the foyer, as well as much of the attached wall. It had been at least two months since the tornado hit and the owners had vacated, and in that time, dust and dirt and crumbling structure had claimed its residence here. Dean led Sam silently through the gaping hole, his boots silent against the hardwood floor. Sam cleared the corners of the room. If this was just the entryway, then the house was much bigger than they originally thought.

"Take the east wing," Dean's gruff voice commanded, "Yell if you find it." Sam nodded once and disappeared. Dean crept down the west wing, waiting for anything to pop out of the shadows. He turned through the endless maze of rooms and hallways before ascending a marble staircase.

_Creeeeaaak._ Dean's head snapped up at the noise. Two rooms up on the left, that's where the sound had come from. He doubted it was Sammy; if he had followed Dean's orders, he'd be searching the other side of the estate. The knife was warm and ready in his hand and his heartbeat picked up. He was ready to see the life drained out of those life-draining bastards.

Warm fingers touched the cold doorknob. Dean steeled himself for a moment, then blew the door open. The room was empty, save a few dead bodies. Dean knew they were dead, he had seen enough bodies to know. As he turned to leave, a wild-haired woman kicked him hard in the chest. Her strength sent him flying into a dusty armoire, which crumbled under the force of his fall.

"Found you," he growled, still clutching the silver blade. She said nothing from the side of the room. He remembered that djinn didn't like to talk much to their food. He lunged at her and she blocked him. They grappled for moments, Dean careful not to let her touch his skin. Her heart was right there, so close to his blade, but he wasn't there yet. She swept his feet out from under him and pinned his arms down in an iron grip. She sat hard on his torso and gripped his wrists over the thick jacket. The hand holding the knife was squeezed, and he grunted as she slammed his hand against the ground until the silver knife was forced out of it.

Dean's muscles were all tensed, ready to spring if she let up, even a little. "Looks like your hands are full," he quipped. "Can't send me into dreamland if you need to keep me pinned, huh?" She smiled then, a gentle, venomous smile. Her face came close to his and he held his breath. Was she going to kiss him? He struggled, but she was too strong, stronger than the ones before. She nuzzled his cheek, her lips brushing his ear.

"Into dreamland," she whispered, soft blue fire trailing up her face.

Dean managed a weak, "Sam!" before his vision tunneled and went black.

. . . . . . . . . .

Dean woke up slowly, pale light filtering through his eyelids. The first thing he noticed was silky softness surrounding him. He cracked open his eyes to the most amazing cream colored sheets he had ever felt. A fluffy comforter topped them, and as he rolled, he felt the memory foam mattress squish under him. The bed alone made him smile. The rest of the room made his jaw drop. Lush carpet covered the expansive bedroom. The intricately carved four-poster king bed he currently lay in stood regally at the back of the room next to floor-to-ceiling windows covered with white gauzy curtains. The double door leading out of the room was a rich cherry wood, matching the bed frame. He saw an overstuffed leather armchair and a matching love-seat couch at the front of the room next to an enormous television.

Dean's head was fuzzy. He couldn't remember anything- how did he get there? Was this his room? Did he even live here? He had been having the strangest dream, like he'd been hunting something. But he didn't hunt... did he?

The curtains billowed near the windows and Dean rolled out of the beautiful bed. He was clad only in grey boxers. That was fine, that was normal. He pushed aside the curtain and gasped The window was actually a door, and it lead out to a balcony overlooking an impossible expanse of turquoise water. The sun was warm outside, and- holy shit. Outside the first floor was a patio, an infinity pool, a fire pit, an outdoor kitchen...

Dean stumbled back inside. His muscles remembered the placement of the bed as if he had lived there for years and he sat without looking. He had amnesia, that was the only way he could justify what was happening. He had a very weird dream and woke up with amnesia in his house. It was then that the sticky note on the alarm clock caught his eye. _Sorry I had to leave early, called in by Thompson, love you_ with a little heart next to it. What did that even mean? Dean stood with renewed energy. He needed to dig.

The house was beautiful. Dean explored each and every room after rooting through a huge closet for some clothes. Some were his size, and some were way too big for him. He was over six feet tall, how could he have clothes meant for someone at least three or four inches taller than him? That wasn't nearly the most interesting part of this world he was in though, so he disregarded it.

The few pieces of mail on the marble kitchen counter were addressed to one Mr. Dean Winchester. That was his name, Dean already knew that part. One was a car insurance update. He pulled out the sheet and read the list. A Camaro, Mustang, Firebird Coupe, and Impala were listed there. He automatically knew what amazing cars those were. He must be a car fanatic. He smiled at the words "1967 Chevy Impala," and was immediately hit in the face with bursts of color. The door of a car with an army man shoved in the side of it. The steering wheel, worn and comfortable between his fingertips, his leather jacket beside him. The stretch of the road as the Impala flew by, laughter echoing around the interior. Whose laughter was that? It was smooth and familiar and beautiful. He put the paper down and looked through the other two letters. One was another bill, and one was from a law firm, addressed to Mr. Sam Winchester.

"Sammy," Dean murmured. Sam! Of course! Sam was his baby brother, the person he was closest to in the world. A pang of something hit his chest. Where was Sam? Did he live here too? Dean looked at the fresh stack of magazines, one of which had his face on it. The magazine was called _Need for Speed_ and had a picture of Dean in a suit, grinning at the viewer. "Dean Winchester, King of the Road: An inside scoop on what make's America's number one car designer tick," it read. Dean nearly ripped the pages flipping to his interview.

He had started off as an amateur car salesman, then rapidly climbed up the ladder and was hired by dozens of companies to design both modern and retro models for them. Dean was from Dallas, Texas. _Texas... _why did that place give him such an uneasy feeling? Dean read on about his designs and work and ideas, it told him little else. He rooted around the house some more and found nothing.

It was nearly four in the afternoon when he gave up and went to the kitchen. He found no pre-cooked food in the fridge or the giant pantry, just ingredients. But Dean could cook, he knew that. The bursts of images came back to him then. A dirty, dim-lit kitchen with bearded man smiling at him under the worn baseball cap. His hands in oven mitts, holding a hot pie out of little Sammy's reach. A dingy motel room that held a stove, Dean flipping pancakes over the sputtering flame. He came back and held onto the counter for support, gritting his teeth. What was happening?

He found that baking relieved some of the stress over his mysterious circumstances. He had just set out a nice apple pie to cool when he heard a door shut towards the front of the house. Without thinking, he snatched up a kitchen knife and backed up behind the doorframe. "Dean?" It was Sam. Why did Dean pick up the knife? It wasn't like anything was going to attack him. The knife clattered to the kitchen counter and a moment later, Sam appeared in the doorway.

For a moment, everything stood still. Sam felt right. If there was one thing Dean was absolutely certain about, it was that his brother Sammy belonged right there with him in any situation. "Sammy," Dean whispered, not bothering to hide his relief.

Sam grinned at the older Winchester and Dean's heart expanded painfully. He hadn't realized how much he needed Sam to be there. He saw flashes of Sam's face before his eyes. He saw Sam grow up from a tiny, clumsy kid to a strong, gorgeous man. He felt all his feelings, brotherly and not, that went along with those pictures. He knew that if Sam was here, everything would be okay. He would look into those impossibly clear eyes, all olive and whiskey colors swirling around in that mesmerizing pattern, and Sam would help him fix whatever was happening. Sam's strides were longer than Dean thought and at once, he was crushed into a hug. He felt, deep down, that he wasn't an outwardly affectionate person, but he hugged back for all he was worth.

"Sam, I-" Dean was cut off by Sam's lips pressing into his.

Dean froze. Sam, his brother, was kissing him. And not just kissing him- Dean felt Sam's hands snake around his waist and push the back of his flannel up, skin meeting hot skin. Dean was frozen. That emotion, the lust and love and desire in a very non-platonic way- that was only him. Sam was just his brother, he didn't feel that way towards Dean.

"Dean?" Sam's brows furrowed as he pulled back to look at Dean's terrified face. "Baby, what's wrong?" Did he say _baby_? Was Sam not his brother, but instead...? No, Sam was definitely his brother! Dean would know something as important as that. He was so confused. Dean's feelings hadn't changed one bit; he wanted Sam even when Sam was his brother. But if Sam wasn't his brother...

Dean flung his arms around Sam's neck and pulled him back, fingers tangling through his long hair. Their lips clashed almost violently and Sam immediately complied, humming contentedly into Dean's mouth. Dean kissed him for all he was worth until he struggled for oxygen. He would have rather blacked out kissing Sam, but his brain had other ideas.

Sam chuckled, skimming his thumb over Dean's cheek. "I guessed you missed me, huh?" Sam's eyes held unabashed love in them, something Dean had always longed to see. It nearly brought tears to his own.

"Sam," Dean began, unsure of what to say. Even if this... whatever he woke up to, was strange to him, did he really want to take a chance and screw it all up? This was his dream come true. "Sam, I think I hit my head or something, because I'm having a hard time remembering everything," Dean tried. Sam's expression immediately became serious.

"You hit your head? Where? And why didn't you go to the hospital? I know you like fixing yourself up, but-"

"Sammy, I'm fine, quit hovering," Dean pushed Sam's injury-probing hands off his head. "Just, don't make fun of me if I ask weird questions, 'kay?"

Sam narrowed his eyes, like he knew Dean was hiding something, but nodded. "You tell me the second you start feeling bad, okay? I will fly you to the hospital if I need to, dammit." Dean grinned and reached up to kiss Sam again. Sam melted into his touch, no longer angry. Dean felt giddy. This was only his third kiss with Sam, as far as he could remember, and he drank Sam down as if he were water in the desert. Suddenly, he was being lifted onto the kitchen counter and Sam's hands were everywhere: his chest, his back, his hair, his face, his ass, _god_. Sam was giving it just as much as Dean was.

"You sure you're okay?" Sam breathed as Dean sucked red marks onto his neck. "You're acting like I've never kissed you before."

"Just want you, 's all," he murmured against his neck.

That was enough for Sam. The taller Winchester wrapped Dean's legs around him and carried him into their bedroom. Dean was thrown onto the bed. Sam had just enough time to kick his shoes off and pull off the suit jacket before Dean was pulling him back onto the squishy mattress and sealing their lips together. This, this was what Dean had been longing for. His unbearable need for Sam was being fulfilled, and he relaxed into his warmth.

The more they touched, the more gentle their movements became. The scramble for skin became soft caresses which made Dean shiver. Dean could see that Sam knew this was different, and he took his time. Long fingers trailed down Dean's bare chest, igniting fire below his skin. Sam's tongue slid languidly along his. Dean was made of nothing but sensations, and he needed to touch Sam. Sam looked so hot in that suit, the smooth material was soft against his hands. Dean always thought Sam looked hot in suits, even the cheap fake FBI ones. Images flashed before his eyes of he and Sam dressed as FBI agents, flashing badges with old rock names.

The memory tickled his brain, but it was completely forgotten when Sam's rock solid member brushed Dean's through their pants. Dean moaned low in his throat. "Sammy, please," Dean thrust his hips upwards, consumed with need.

Sam's eyes widened and he grinded down on Dean, eliciting more needy noises from the shorter Winchester. "Begging, huh?" Sam panted. "That usually doesn't happen this early." But Sam complied, pulling the jeans from Dean's hips and pressing his hand to the clothed length.

"Ungh," Dean choked, pushing up into Sam's very large palm. "Yours too," he growled.

Sam's eyes were nearly black with desire. His pants were gone in seconds, the only thing covering their erections were Dean's boxers and Sam's very tight briefs. Dean grinned as he took a handful of Sam's perfect ass and pushed his hips down to his, earning a low moan from the taller man. "God, Dean," Sam breathed, covering Dean's lips once more.

Sam's fingers went to Dean's waistband. Dean got the feeling that Sam was used to ripping his underwear off, but Sam paused, looking up at Dean in silent question. Sam knew something was different, and he was asking Dean's permission. "Please, Sam," he breathed, ready to take his own underwear off if necessary. Sam beat him to it though, sliding the boxers off in one swoop.

Dean felt a little self-conscious right then, though he never had before. Of course, no one before had ever mattered as much as Sam.

"I never get tired of this," Sam murmured, eyes raking down Dean's entire body. Dean could feel his stare, like a beam of warm light. "Do you even know how beautiful you are?" Dean's eyes widened at Sam's words, but he couldn't say anything; Sam had pressed his lips to Dean's neck, trailing slowly over his collarbone, down his chest, pausing to flick his tongue over a nipple. The wet warmth that was Sam traveled downwards on his stomach muscles, which contracted under his touch. He kissed both Dean's hipbones. The shorter man needed to see this. He propped himself up oh his elbows just in time to see Sam's long tongue flick over the tip of his aching erection.

"Ahh," Dean gasped. Sam teased, licking tiny bits of his shaft at a time, nuzzling the skin at the base. Precome was steadily leaking out of the tip now, which Sam lapped up hungrily. "C'mon, Sammy, please," Dean whined, bucking his hips towards Sam's kissed-pink lips. Sam grinned at him, then took Dean's whole length in his mouth until his nose rested in Dean's soft curls.

Dean bit back a yell, the strangled noise dying in his throat. Sam pulled completely off. "Wanna hear you, Dean," he mumbled against the older Winchester's hip. When Sam swallowed him down again, Dean didn't hesitate he let out a surprisingly high pitched moan and thrust his hand into Sam's hair, gripping it like it was an anchor. Sam hollowed out his cheeks and pulled up, doing something with his tongue that-

"Sam, please, oh god, so good, Sammy please..." He didn't even know what he was begging for. He didn't think it was possible to feel _more_ than what Sam was doing with his incredibly talented mouth. With all the brilliant fireworks of pleasure bursting through his body, he failed to see Sam lube up a few fingers. With a particularly forceful suck to the head of Dean's member, he slipped a very well-lubed finger into Dean's puckered hole.

The dual pleasure/pain sensation he was feeling confused him, and when Sam's mouth popped off him, he felt the burning creep in. "Dean, you feel like a virgin," Sam said reverently. Dean knew he was, he could feel the newness of these feelings, even if they had somehow done this before. "Dean?" His eyes found Sam's again, confusion flashing in the pools of black and hazel.

Dean knew he had to relax. He breathed deeply, forcing the tension from his muscles. He didn't push Sam off- he wanted this. "It's okay, Sammy," he breathed, fingers running through Sam's hair, "keep going." Sam pulled his finger out slowly, the burn slightly lessening. When he pushed it back in, it looked like he knew exactly what he was doing. Dean's thought process was cut off when Sam pressed something inside Dean that sent an electric current up his spine. "OhgodfuckSammypleasedothatagain," he babbled, head falling back into the pillows. Sam hummed his satisfaction as he worked Dean's sweet spot like a pro, adding fingers and stretching him out until only nonsense syllables fell from Dean's lips.

When Dean's balls drew up, warning of his impending release, Sam slid his fingers out and sat back on his knees. Dean was a flushed, sweating, shaking mess before him, eyes black and mouth open with desire. Dean whined at the loss of Sam's fingers. He needed more, specifically the gigantic diamond-hard member that belonged to the beautiful man in front of him. Sam grinned. "The best is yet to come," he quoted. Dean had just enough brain cells to roll his eyes before the tip of Sam's erection pressed against his hole. Dean pushed his hips down, willing Sam to stop staring and complete him already. Sam's eyes softened and he leaned down, claiming Dean's lips in a slow, searing kiss. Dean's hands gripped Sam's ridiculous back muscles. His eyes went wide as Sam pressed himself completely into Dean.

"Jesus Christ," Dean gasped. Sam felt humongous, way more than the three fingers that used to be in the same place. The burn was there, but Dean didn't really mind. He was filled, wholly and absolutely.

"Call me Sam," he quipped, and before Dean could compose a sarcastic remark, Sam pulled out and thrust in again.

"Sam!" Dean cried out, Sam's velvety length pressing into that same amazing spot inside him.

"Dean," Sam murmured, gazing into Dean's eyes as he thrust. They rocked together, melding into one being. Dean didn't know where he ended and Sam began. The pleasure stretched for minutes or hours or days, Dean didn't care. Sam's murmured praise and his olive and whiskey eyes swirling around in that mesmerizing pattern and his lips kissing every inch of Dean he could reach, forehead, cheeks, lips, neck, chin, ears... Heaven wasn't found in death, heaven was found in Sam, right here, right now. Fire licked up Dean's spine as he shouted a mixture of nonsense words and Sam's name over and over until it became the steady mantra of "_Sammy, Sammy, Sammy._"

Dean felt the tsunami of pleasure nearing his shore. His nails dug into Sam's shoulders because he could no longer form words to warn of his impending orgasm.

"Oh, me too, Dean, _Dean,_" Sam gasped. They tumbled down together, or more like up. Dean was being lifted, no, he was flying as spasms of something more than pleasure seized his body. Nothing existed, nothing at all but Sam, his Sammy who owned his soul. The white vision in front of his eyes was slowly turning black.

The next thing he felt was Sam's fingers threading through his. They both lay on the bed, but Sam was now next to him, not on top of him. Had he blacked out? Neither man spoke, but concentrated on refueling their bodies with oxygen. Dean was heavy, warm, and sated like he had never been before. It took a whole five minutes before Sam could speak. "You're... amazing..." he said between breaths. Dean managed a weak chuckle. A crinkling of plastic and Sam's removed hand drew his attention away from the haze of pleasure. Baby wipes. Sam had brought baby wipes to clean them up with.

"Always... prepared, huh?" Dean rasped.

"Like the good boy scout I am," Sam murmured, swiping the cool cloth over the puddle of come on Dean's chest and stomach. When they were both cleaned up, Sam pulled Dean into his arms. Dean didn't cuddle, for some reason he felt that was true, but nothing could keep him from rolling into Sam's embrace. He fit perfectly against Sam's body, like they were made for each other. It was such a cheesy thought, but it made Dean grin like a kid on Christmas morning.

Neither man fell asleep. Sam's fingers trailed softly up and down Dean's arm as Dean twirled a lock of Sam's hair around his fingers. "Sam?" Dean finally parted the comfortable silence.

"Yes, Dean?" Sam's voice was so smooth and content. He pulled away enough to look Dean in the eyes, the olive and whiskey swirls shining with happiness. Sam radiated happiness, and Dean could feel it down to his core. This was right, he and Sam. This was real, no matter what other notions his brain had. No matter how much of his life he had forgotten, no matter what weird images came to mind, no matter how unfamiliar he felt in the ornate house, Sam was real, and he was his. Even if they were brothers, which is what his mind kept insisting. "Dean?" Sam ran his thumb along Dean's jaw, snapping him back to the present.

"Are we brothers?" Dean asked quietly.

Sam gave him a little amused look and chuckled. "No, we aren't brothers."

"So then why are our last names the same? Winchester."

"I took yours," Sam brought Dean's left hand up to their faces, matching rings shining on their fingers.

Something swelled in Dean's chest, something he had never felt before. He felt tears well up in his eyes and fought to blink them back. "We're..."

"We're married," Sam kissed Dean's ring. "Nearly five years, now. And for the rest of our lives, and beyond that." He resumed stroking Dean's cheek. "You really don't remember?"

"I..." Dean didn't have words. He always had words, but his silver tongue failed him.

"Whatever you're going through right now, I'm staying right here. I won't ever leave you, you got that?" Dean nodded. "I love you."

"You love me?" the older man whispered.

"With every fiber of my being." Sam stared at him intently. "More than every word of every sappy love poem that anyone's ever written. More than myself, more than life, more than even I understand." Sam smiled and looked down. "You always tease me for being so girly, but it's true. I love you, Dean Winchester."

"I love you, Sammy," he gripped the taller man's hand. "My Sammy."

"Dean," Sam said, louder than their conversation had been.

"What?"

"Dean!" his voice was louder, his face contorted with panic. Dean felt himself yanked out of the bed by an unseen force. He felt a heavy, uncomfortable weight on his chest, and he struggled. He tried to yell, _Sam!_ but his voice didn't work. The scene was fading before him, the walls vanished, then the bed. The last thing he saw were Sam's impossibly clear eyes.

"_Dean!"_

_. . . . . . . . . ._

"Dean, come on, Dean, come back to me," Sam's voice filtered through the black fog in Dean's brain. "Dean, you need to wake up!" His eyes cracked open, searching through the dim-lit images in front of him. They were in the half-destroyed mansion, he remembered, hunting the djinn. She lay on the floor several feet away from them with the silver knife still protruding from her back, dead. Djinn. It was all a dream, just a projection of his desires while the monster drained him. He wasn't married to Sam. They weren't even together. They were brothers, platonic only.

"Dean, thank god," Sam sat back on his knees, blood covering a good portion of his over-shirt. Dean's eyes darted to Sam's left hand. No ring. Completely bare, nothing to distinguish a connection between them. Something thick welled up inside Dean, something dark and painful and hungry. Sam looked concerned, the same concerned look as dream-Sam had given him in their kitchen. "Dean?"

Dean was too overwhelmed by the blackness. He rolled away from his brother and into a ball, sobbing into his dirty hands uncontrollably.


	2. Sam

**A/N:** Wow, this got a little darker that I thought it would get... Sorry for that. Still fluff to come. Warning: torture

**Chapter Two: Sam**

Sam had taken the east wing, like Dean told him to. The first room he went into was a crumbling laundry room, but he was careful. He knew for a fact that he was not the reason the ceiling caved in. It hadn't even been sixty seconds before the doorway had been sealed with crumbling concrete and wood.

"Dean!" he yelled. It echoed weakly off the tile as Sam tried not to panic. The next ten minutes had been spent trying to work his way out of the room. He needed to get to his big brother. Though Dean was the one who usually protected Sam, he couldn't bear the thought of Dean taking on a djinn alone again. Every ounce of pain in Dean's eyes was a pound of pain in Sam's heart, and Sam had seen Dean after the last djinn fight. It wasn't good.

Sam finally escaped by throwing a broken vacuum cleaner through the weakest bit of rubble. It gave him just enough space to wiggle through and sprint towards the west wing of the mansion.

His eyes swam in the maze of beautiful hallways, searching for any sign of Dean. After too much wandering, he took a marble staircase towards the second floor and begun kicking in the doors. First one on the right: nothing. First one on the left: nothing. Second one on the right: nothing. Second one on the left. "Dean!"

There he was, slumped against a poster of the bed, hands tied above his head and a bag of his blood hanging next to him. There were three dead bodies in the corner, drained and forgotten. Had he not been a trained hunter, he wouldn't have heard the tiny creak in the floorboards behind him. His adrenaline surged, and he gripped his knife.

_Slash! _ She jumped backwards, the cut on her arm sizzling. She hissed and dove at him again. Sam was thrown back into the wall, which nearly gave under the force of his weight. He rolled, which earned him a huge gash on his stomach from a piece of broken glass. She dove, hands outstretched to pull him into dreamland, but his hand found another larger piece of glass. With as much force as he could muster, he jammed it into her throat. The djinn stumbled backwards, nails raking at her bleeding throat. It wouldn't kill her, but it distracted her enough for Sam to surge forward and drive the knife deep into her back. A scream pierced the air, and she fell, dead.

"Dean," Sam groaned, dropping to his knees. His pocket knife cut through the rope binding his brother's hands quickly, and Sam removed the needle from Dean's neck. "Dean!" He gently slapped his brother's face, but Dean stayed asleep.

He still had a pulse, he still took raspy breaths, but Sam was panicking. "Dean, come on," Sam pleaded with his unmoving brother. "Dean, come back to me!" His hands fisted in Dean's shirt. _Don't cry, Sam,_ he commanded himself. _Don't you dare cry._ One little tear slipped out though, because just the thought of Dean not waking up broke his heart. Dean: his big brother, his role model, the man who raised him, the man he loved.

A little noise came from the older Winchester's throat. His eyes cracked open, and Sam saw Dean's eyes, deep pools of evergreen that seemed to reach his soul. He groaned again and sat up a little against the post. "Dean, thank god," Sam let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and leaned back on his knees. Dean was alive, he'd be okay, he came back.

But Dean's face told Sam he was far from okay. Dean stared at Sam uncomprehendingly. No snarky, "What took you so long?" or "Damn, I hate djinn." Just pure, raw pain. Sam had never seen that look cross his brother's features. Dean's eyes darted down and back up, and he did something Sam never expected: he burst into tears.

Dean's body curled away from him, his face hidden in his hands. Sam's mouth hung open. This had never happened before... Sure, he and Dean were allowed their emotional moments, but the most emotional Dean's ever been yielded a few stoic tears and a little bit of lip trembling. This... Sam didn't know what to do. Did he pick Dean up? Did he let him cry it out? What had happened in his dream to make him that upset?

The younger Winchester settled for rubbing Dean's back silently as the sobs racked his body. It went on for maybe fifteen minutes before the sobs became raspy breaths, then stopped altogether. "Dean?" Sam tried softly. He was frankly scared of what could happen next, but Dean just picked himself off the floor and shrugged Sam's hand off.

"'M fine, get off," he said, voice gruff from the tears. Sam just watched as Dean walked right out the door, not giving his brother a second look. After a moment of shock, Sam rushed out of the mansion and after his brother. His confusion and worry tore his concentration to bits, and he failed to see the tiny boy crouched behind the grandfather clock staring at him as he ran out the door.

When Sam got to the Impala, Dean was sitting in the passenger's seat, the car on and ready to go. He could barely believe what was happening. Dean wanted him to drive the Impala, _his baby_, with absolutely no prompting? Sam complied without a word, like he always did. Dean stared out the window through the whole drive, not once acknowledging Sam's presence. Sam was torn between hurt from his brother's distance and worry for his state of mind.

They didn't drive long. Sam stopped at the first motel they passed. "Is the room on the corner available?" Sam asked the woman at the desk, tapping his foot impatiently.

"Sure, hun," the woman gravelly cigarette-voice floated from the back room. She soon produced a key. Sam threw some bills at her and nearly ran back to the car. Dean was already standing in front of the motel door, duffel in hand. To anyone else, Dean looked like he was simply leaning on the wall, casual and meaningless. Sam could read Dean though, and the nearly imperceptible tension in his shoulders and hard line of his mouth meant he was troubled.

The lock was rusty and squeaked as the key opened the door. Sam entered and internally groaned. It was a king size bed, only one of them. This had happened before, Sam had learned to ignore the butterflies in his stomach when he slept next to Dean. His feet felt heavy as he dropped the key on the table and sat on the end of the bed. It was only then that he realized that Dean hadn't moved. "Dean?" His brother's face was stuck between terrified and angry.

"No," the older Winchester said simply before turning right around and walking out of Sam's line of sight.

"Seriously, Dean?" Sam crossed back out into the night air. Dean was stopped only a few feet away, back turned. "C'mon, come back inside," Sam pleaded. He expected an outburst, some anger, maybe even a fight, but Dean just turned and walked back into the room. Something was seriously wrong. "Hey," Sam said a little more softly as Dean sat on the bed. He took off his boots, untying the laces one at a time. "Will you tell me what happened?" Dean removed his outer shirt, facing away from his little brother. "It was your dream, Dean, I know how to read you." Partial lie. He could tell that it was Dean's dream that bothered him, but he had no idea what could make Dean act like this. His brother slid under the covers of the bed, facing the wall. "Why won't you tell me?"

"I'm trying to sleep, Sam," Dean's voice unwavering, but small. For a moment, the younger Winchester just stood, watching the small movements of Dean's breathing. Whatever he had seen... Sam's heart clenched painfully. It was times like these when Sam felt the sharp side of love. If Dean were only Sam's brother, Sam would still hurt, but Dean was so much more to Sam.

He knew Dean was still awake, but he was still careful not to rustle the blanket when he climbed into the bed. The slivers of moonlight painted Dean's usually golden skin a pale grey. All Sam wanted to do was pull Dean into his arms and tell him that it was all going to be okay. He would fit Dean's head in the hollow of his neck and rub his back. He would comfort Dean. But he would never do that, not unless he wanted Dean to up and leave right then and there. Sam kept his words and actions platonic, though his thoughts were anything but. The sharp side of love was feeling the other's pain. What hurt most, though, was that Sam couldn't relieve it.

Sam rolled to face away from Dean, like he knew he should. He didn't fall asleep until he was absolutely sure that Dean was out.

Sam opened his eyes, then shut them tightly. The sun shone right into them. What time was it, if the sun was up that high? They never slept in, there was always too much work to do. He made to get up, but a tiny tug on his shirt told him not to.

Dean had rolled over in the middle of the night and clutched the back of Sam's shirt tightly, not moving from that position. Sam could barely see Dean's face behind him, buried in the pillow. However much he liked the unconscious affection, he needed to get up. It took some very gentle coaxing to untangle Dean's fingers without waking him, but Sam succeeded. After a very quick shower, he found Dean still asleep, his fist clenched tight where Sam had previously been. Sam would get some breakfast, nice and greasy. That would cheer Dean up a little.

Clean clothes, shoes, wallet, phone. Time to go. He shut the motel door quietly behind him, squinting into the sunlight. That was strange- there was a kid with wild brown hair standing in front of the Impala. "Uh, hello?" Sam paused in front of him.

The kid yanked Sam forward by the front of his shirt with impossible strength. "You killed my mommy," the little voice said. A little hand found Sam's forehead and before he could yell for Dean, red fire crawled to his skin and he blacked out.

He was sweating. That was the first thing Sam noticed, the heat. It was stifling and humid and made Sam gasp. It smelled like sulfur and fire and death. When his vision cleared, he saw he was in a dirty stone room, torches lining the walls. There were two figures there, one was- "Dean!"

Dean was clad only in ripped jeans, trussed painfully to a rusty metal rack. "Sammy?" Dean struggled against his restraints. He looked terrified.

"Dean!" Sam called again, pushing off the floor and promptly hitting a wall. He put his hand up, incredulous. There was nothing there, but Sam's hand stopped. He couldn't move any further. Sam pushed with all his might, but he was trapped. There were marks on the floor, outlining his little prison. It was- Sam gasped- a devil's trap.

A smooth laugh echoed around the stone. The younger Winchester's head snapped up to the slight, bearded man in front of Dean. "Alistair," Dean addressed the man, fists clenched. Alistair... They were in Hell. How was that possible? If they both had somehow died, Sam wouldn't be able to see Dean. Or was this Sam's punishment? But how did a devil's trap hold him, a human, in Hell of all places?

"Sammy, help me," Dean's voice broke, deep evergreen eyes pleading.

"You can't help him," Alistair grinned. "You're nothing but a monster."

"No!" Sam pushed against the invisible barrier. "Let him go! Take me instead!"

"You?" Alistair laughed. "You couldn't work off your sins if you rotted down here for all eternity." Sam knew it was true, he knew he would always end up here, but Dean didn't belong in Hell. He belonged in Heaven. A metal table was jerked into view, instruments of torture carefully laid out across it. "Let's play a game!" Alistair gripped Dean's face. "For every sin Sam has committed, I will hurt you. For every shameful act he's carried out, for every evil thought that crossed his mind, for every innocent person's death he was responsible for, you will feel pain!" Alistair's voice rose as Sam's panic did. All that darkness inside of him, it would take _centuries_ for Alistair to finish torturing Dean.

"No, please!" Sam cried, pounding his fist against the trap.

Dean's eyes turned to Sam. "Why?" his voice broke as Alistair picked up a curved knife. "Why are you such a monster, Sam?"

Sam heaved out a sob at those words. Dean had sort of called him a monster before, but never had Sam heard it with so much pain and sincerity.

"Your mother's death," Alistair began, slashing a deep line into Dean's pectoral.

"Stop!" Sam begged as Dean cried out.

"Your father's alcoholism," he continued, carving a chunk of muscle out of Dean's arm. "Jessica's death." He skinned a strip of flesh from Dean's side. "Dean's first death." A finger came off.

Sam's wails of _no_ and _stop_ and _please_ and _Dean_ were lost under Dean's screams of pain.

"Your addiction to demon blood, leaving your brother for Ruby, making Dirk MacGreggor's life hell, killing your love Madison, the death of Sarah Blake!" _Slash, cut, rip._ Blood poured out of Dean and he broke down in tears, barely trashing against his bonds. Alistair listed every little detail of Sam's corruption as he tore Dean apart.

Sam fell to his knees, nails scraping for release from the prison. His shirt was drenched from his tears, and he felt Dean's pain as if it were his own, hot lines of fire ripping through his chest. Had his stomach not been empty, he would have thrown up. Alistair cackled as he branded Dean with red-hot metal in the shape of _SAM_. "This is your brother's fault!" he yelled as he seared Sam's name into his skin. Over and over his skin sizzled, the letters bubbling.

"Why?" Dean screamed. When Alistair backed away from Dean's remains after what felt like years, Dean's head rolled to face Sam. "I hate you," he whispered, but that was the loudest thing Sam had heard.

"Sam!" Dean's voice sounded close.

"No!" Sam begged. "Please, Dean!"

"Sam!" Dean's hands gripped his shirt. Sam's eyes flew open, pure terror shining through them. He wasn't in the room anymore. The air smelled like dumpster and the temperature was a good thirty degrees lower.

"Sammy, talk to me," Dean commanded. _Dean._ There he was, on Earth and alive and in one piece. It was all a dream, a djinn-induced nightmare. Dean's eyes, the deep pools of evergreen that seemed to reach his soul, searched Sam's. "Sam?"

"Dean!" Sam sobbed, tears still streaming down his face. "I'm so sorry," he choked, burying his head in his hands.

"It's okay, Sam," Dean gripped his shoulder, "it's gonna be okay."


	3. Together

**Chapter Three: Together**

"Yeah. Okay, thanks Bobby." Dean hung up the phone, still pacing the room. Sam sat silently on the motel bed, legs pulled up to his chest.

"Sam-"

"I'm fine, Dean." That had happened four times already. Once Sam stopped crying and apologizing, he sat, shivering and insisting everything was okay.

"No, Sam, it's my job to be a stubborn asshole," Dean's voice was more gentle than he expected. The feelings from his dream still clung to him, and maybe that was why he sat next to his little brother on the bed and pulled the taller man tightly against him.

"I'm fine," Sam whispered, not even pretending to fight Dean's embrace.

After a pause, Dean explained what Bobby had told him. "There's a kind of djinn mutation, really rare, that can trap you in a nightmare. They usually don't have tattoos, and their fire is red." Sam felt Dean's hand run up and down his arm soothingly. "That's what got you, huh?"

"Yeah," Sam mumbled, comfortable against Dean's chest. Dean, real, whole, and alive, right in front of him.

"You want to tell me what you saw?" Dean asked, truly curious. What was Sam's worst nightmare? Jess on the ceiling again? Coming back soulless, probably, and remembering all the things he did.

"Only if you tell me what happened with you," Sam countered, not really taunting. He wanted to know so badly what Dean's happiest moments would be, what was good enough to make him break down when it was taken away.

They were both silent for a long time. Sam thought Dean might have dropped the conversation completely. Dean was thinking about what Sam would do if Dean told him.

"Okay," Dean finally said, surprising them both. "But you have to go first."

"Jerk," Sam mumbled.

"Bitch," Dean murmured back. Both brothers smiled a little. The younger Winchester stayed like he was, back against Dean's chest. The older stretched his legs out on the bed, moving his hand to run through Sam's hair.

"It was Hell," Sam began with a shudder. "But not when I was in Hell, when you were. And somehow I was there, but I was trapped in a demon trap, which means I was... Anyway." Sam tensed. "You were being tortured by Alistair, and he said for every horrible thing I had done in my life, he would hurt you. It went on for hours," Sam's breath hitched, and several fat tears rolled down his cheeks. Dean's hand stilled in his hair, but he needed to finish. "I watched, and you kept asking why I wasn't saving you, but I was trapped and I... I just..." He took several breaths, calming himself down. "At the end, you told me you hated me. Just the look in your eyes, Dean-" He broke into sobs again, and Dean tightened his grip.

Sam's worst nightmare was seeing Dean hurt. His worst fear was Dean hating him. However terrible that was, Dean couldn't help but smile into Sam's hair. It warmed his heart that Sam loved him so much. Maybe he wouldn't run away when Dean admitted his feelings.

"I don't hate you, you know that, right? Couldn't if I tried." Sam made a noncommittal noise, sniffling. "I can prove it to you."

Sam shifted in Dean's grasp, looking at the older man with confusion in his eyes. "How?"

"My dream," Dean answered. He couldn't look at Sam. No matter how much he knew his baby brother loved him, he was still terrified. Sam could very easily leave, but he needed to hear it. And Dean needed to get it off his chest.

"It was the best I've ever felt, Sammy. I was settled down in a nice big house like we've always wanted. I was a famous car designer, which was awesome." He chuckled a little before continuing. "And... I was married. To the most wonderful person in the world." He glanced at Sam, who looked almost sad. Dean's heart ached at that barely perceptible expression, which drove him to finish. "I was married to you, Sam. We were together." It was out there, no turning back now. Dean held his breath, heart thumping painfully in his chest while Sam processed the words.

Sam first looked confused. When realization hit, his eyes grew wide. Dean half expected Sam to roll out of his embrace and out the door, but he just opened and closed his mouth like a fish. Sam's wheels weren't turning; they were stuck and sputtering. A part of him knew he looked like an idiot, gaping at his brother, but the rest of him was trying to figure out what to do with itself.

"Your happiest moment..." Sam repeated slowly, "your greatest fantasy... Was being with me?"

"In every way," Dean confirmed, warmth spreading through his cheeks for the first time in a long time.

"_Every_ way?" Sam asked again. Dean hoped that wasn't fear in his eyes.

"Yeah, Sammy." He cleared his throat, looking away. "I've wanted that for a long time. Maybe forever. That's why it was so hard to wake up."

Sam's face colored a deep red. He understood- Dean reciprocated his feelings. Dean loved him, emotionally and physically. He idly wondered if he was under a regular djinn's spell, because hearing that was his dream.

"C'mon, Sammy, say something," Dean pleaded. Waiting there with bated breath was almost as bad as Sam leaving. Sam's big puppy eyes met Dean's fear-clouded ones, and with a big spurt of will, Sam surged up to kiss him. It was quick and closed mouthed, but it was enough to shock Dean.

It was Dean's turn to process. After staring at his brother for a moment, a smile spread across his face. "Really?" he asked.

Sam answered by turning in Dean's arms and kissing him again. Their bodies fit like two adjacent puzzle pieces and, however cliché, it felt so right. Sam couldn't help but sigh into Dean's mouth when his older brother's fingers slipped just barely under the hem of his shirt. Sam fought to get more, but Dean was gentle.

"Dean," Sam whined, "please." He felt Dean smile against his lips and was hefted up to straddle him.

It was different than before, Dean thought. He remembered the little things in his dream of Sam, and while it was incredibly hot, it wasn't how Sam was. Here and now, Sam _wanted._ Dean could taste his desire with every kiss. In the dream, Sam had been controlled and purposeful, every movement planned, but in the real world, Sam was needy, scrambling for his brother like he would drown without him.

Dean would do this right. Even though they were both technically unexperienced, Dean remembered every detail of dream-Sam's touches that made him come undone, and Dean wanted to do that now for Sammy.

"C'mon, Dean," Sam growled, tugging Dean's shirt up. Dean pushed himself up so Sam could throw the offending piece of clothing away. When the younger Winchester fumbled with Dean's belt buckle, Dean pulled his hands away.

"There's no rush, Sammy," he murmured, placing Sam's hands on his shoulders. "I'm not going anywhere."

Sam seemed to calm down at that. Tears threatened to spill over his eyes again, but he held them back. "I know," Sam said after a moment. He removed his own shirt and pressed his body back onto Dean's, their kissing languid.

Sam took his time exploring Dean's body. He noticed that his brother liked when Sam's teeth dragged down his earlobe, or the hot trail of Sam's tongue along his collarbone. Sam mapped out every scar on Dean's torso with his lips and his fingers, several of which he had stitched up himself. With every hitch of Dean's breath and sigh of pleasure, Sam's heartbeat raced.

Dean loved how Sam looked on top of him, touching and teasing and just staring at him with a look far more important than lust in his eyes. He traced his little brother's hip bones with his thumbs, appreciating the hard-earned muscle beneath his hands. He threaded his hands through Sam's silky hair and pulled him down in a kiss, using the position to roll the two until Sam was the one beneath Dean.

"Sammy," Dean breathed, nosing his hard jaw. The bulges in both men's jeans were growing increasingly uncomfortable, and Sam was growing increasingly impatient.

"Dean," Sam whispered, pushing his hips up into Dean's. Both Winchesters groaned at the delicious friction, even through jeans. They silently agreed that it was time to remove the offending garments. Dean tried to get off the bed to take the worn denim off, but Sam wouldn't let go of him. He successfully shimmied out of them in his horizontal position, drawing wonderful noises from the movement against his little brother.

Dean made his way downwards, kissing, nipping, and sucking at bits of Sam's skin and reveling at the high whimpers and low moans. When his tongue dragged through Sam's treasure trail, the younger man's hips bucked upwards.

"Sorry," he whispered. Dean could only chuckle. It made him kind of proud that Sam was losing control without even having his pants off.

Those pants were soon on the floor, Sam's erection straining through the thin, grey fabric. He was nervous; despite wanting Dean for some time now, he had never been with a man, not even to see what it was like. Dean felt Sam's thighs tense and stroked them reassuringly. "I've got you, Sammy," he murmured, Sam's olive and whiskey eyes locked on his.

It only took the wetness of Dean's tongue through his briefs to throw Sam's head back and drain him of all previous nervousness. The younger Winchester's hands fisted in the sheets. When Dean pulled his briefs off in one fell swoop, Sam's large hands found Dean's hair instead.

A strangled cry came from Sam when Dean took his gigantic member in his mouth. The pulling sensations on Dean's head heightened his senses. Sam felt Dean's tongue trace patterns on the underside as his lips pulled slowly up and down. "Dean," Sam breathed.

When the contact was removed, Sam looked up, confused. "Hand me those two pillows, would you?" Dean asked him, an excited glint in his eye. Sam obeyed, once again a little nervous of what Dean had planned. The two pillows were wedged under the small of Sam's back, exposing him to the air. Dean took a moment to memorize that picture.

Sam soon felt Dean's lips on his inner thigh and relaxed again, concentrating on the warm tingles his skin was spreading. Dean inched towards his hole, and Sam focused on keeping himself relaxed. Dean paused, so long that Sam was about to lift his head and ask Dean what was wrong, when something wet and hot flicked against his puckered skin. A combination of a squeak and a large breath escaped Sam's throat. It felt strange, but the kind of strange that made him want to feel it again. And Dean let him feel it again.

"Let me hear you, Sam," Dean said before diving back down and swirling his tongue along the pink flesh. Sam couldn't help it- he let out a low moan, almost a growl, that cut off with an intake of breath as Dean's tongue pushed into his hole. Dean's own erection twitched painfully under him. Sam made the best noises.

After licking, laving, and sucking Sam's puckered skin until he was shaking, Dean finally grabbed the small tube of lube he had stashed in the room for a variety of reasons. He slicked up a finger, deciding that his tongue alone wouldn't be enough; he would be Sam's first, after all. Sam felt Dean's finger circle his already relaxed hole and pushed against it, going mad from Dean's slow pace. "Please, Dean," Sam groaned, grasping the headboard above him for some kind of leverage. The emerald of Dean's eyes was nearly nonexistent around his blown out pupils.

After what seemed like years of tense staring, Dean pushed a finger in slowly, searching for any sign of pain on Sam's face. After the incredible rimming, the younger Winchester just wanted more. He pushed against Dean's finger, silently urging the older man for _more, harder, faster, anything_. Dean pulled out and pushed in a few times before experimentally crooking his finger. When he was with dream-Sam, his brother had found that place inside him that drove him completely-

Sam cried out loudly, feet almost slipping off the bed. "GodDeanpleaseagain," he slurred, his head falling back. Dean rubbed that spot again, and what fell out of Sam's mouth was nonsense. He added another finger, and another, always making sure to press against that magic spot.

Dean's member strained against the mattress, begging to be a part of the action. Sam felt Dean's fingers withdraw, but he knew what was next. Dean spread the thick lube around his aching erection and lined it up with Sam's hole. The brothers' eyes met in a silent understanding of trust and need and love. Dean's fingers ran along Sam's jaw and he kissed him, long and deep. As his tongue breached Sam's kissed-red lips, he slid entirely into Sam, down to the hilt.

Sparks exploded behind Sam's eyes. It burned, more than three fingers had, but he felt so complete that he didn't even care. Dean moaned at Sam's tightness. He marveled at how he could fit into such a small space. His fingers grasped Sam's hair and pulled gently. When he found no trace of pain on his baby brother's face, he pulled out and pushed back in.

The wetness and the heat was all-consuming. "You're gorgeous, Sammy," Dean murmured against his neck, pressing wet kisses on every inch of exposed skin. He didn't know why he said it, but he wanted Sam to know. He wanted Sam to know everything. "So perfect. Wanted this, baby boy." Sam shifted beneath him and he hit that sweet spot inside him.

"Dean!" he cried out, sparks shooting up his spine. His eyes would have rolled back in his head if his brother's face wasn't so beautiful.

"Sammy," Dean groaned, rolling his hips in time with Sam's labored breaths. "So good, oh, Sam, so perfect, love you so much." He felt Sam's muscles clench deliciously at his words. "Wanted you for so long... couldn't live without you..." Sam's lips clashed against his own. His hands scrambled for purchase on Dean's muscular back.

"Dean," Sam could only whimper. Then, suddenly, Sam's hands gripped Dean's back and he lifted himself up to sit on Dean's lap, his brother still fully sheathed inside him. They sat chest to chest, rocking together with the beat of their hearts.

Hurried cries turned to low moans as they fell in sync, foreheads resting against each other. Fire built in Dean's body, not just in his stomach, but everywhere. Sam was crawling under his skin, covering every fiber of his being. Sam felt sparks shoot up his spine and his muscles clench and unclench, his pleasure building like a crescendo. They were close, so close, and nothing in the universe existed but the two of them. Not the world, not the motel, not even the bed they were on, just each other. Their skin and breath seemed to melt into their freshly unearthed desires and they were flying, just as Dean had before.

As Sam's orgasm overtook him, he used his last few brain cells to sob out, "Dean!" Then his whole body went rigid, lightening striking him right to his core. His vision went green, the green of Dean's eyes and he was convulsing with sensation. If this was how he would die, he would gladly accept it.

Dean watched Sam with awe as he reached his climax. The clench of muscle and warmth between their stomachs and the look on Sam's face pushed Dean over the edge. "Sam!" his voice broke as he drowned in pleasure. His whole body shook with the force as he spiraled into weightlessness.

The brothers teetered there for a moment, still clutching each other like their lives depended on it, before collapsing sideways on the motel comforter. They lay, still joined and panting, for what seemed like hours, but was probably close to only five minutes. When Dean's eyes finally opened, they found the endless pools of olive and whiskey waiting for him.

"Hey," he breathed, pushing Sam's sweaty hair out of his face.

"Hey," Sam whispered, smiling lazily back at him.

After another few moments, Dean finally pulled out, earning a little groan from each brother. "We should clean up," Dean murmured, unmoving.

"We really should," Sam's voice was already thick and tired. Instead, he pulled the neglected blanket over them both, tucking his head under his big brother's chin. Dean wrapped his arms securely around Sam, their legs tangling together.

"I love you," Sam murmured into Dean's skin. "More than anything."

"I love you, Sammy," Dean said into Sam's hair. "No matter what."

The two men drifted in and out of sleep, the feeling of security and love pulling smiles from their faces with every small movement of the other. They stayed like that throughout the day, reveling in the feeling that this wasn't just a dream. It was startlingly real, and nothing could change it now.


	4. Epilogue

**A/N:** Shameless fluff. Shameless.

**Epilogue**

One year passed. Every day, Dean woke up next to Sam and marveled at how lucky he was. Every day, Sam seemed to smile bigger and bigger at his brother, his love. There were still monsters to fight and lives to save, but life was different. It was complete.

The two had just finished off a particularly hairy case involving both a shapeshifter and a Crocotta.

"How'd you know it wasn't me?" Sam asked, bracing himself for Dean to relocate his dislocated shoulder. "Crocottas are supposed to be perfect at mimicking voices."

Dean smiled and quickly snapped Sam's shoulder back into place. Sam grunted and reeled for a bit, and when he calmed, Dean pressed a quick kiss to his lips. "I know your voice, Sammy. And even without your voice, I know you." The older Winchester packed away the first aid kit, counting the leftover ammo.

Warmth spread through Sam's chest. Dean hadn't batted an eye when he found the creature. He even set a trap for it, all by himself, while Sam played prisoner in a sewer. He did all that, just because he could tell that the perfect imitation of Sam's voice wasn't his Sam. He was that in tune to him.

Sam stared at the floor. Maybe this was the right time. Maybe... "Dean?"

"Hm?" Dean hummed, cleaning a silver knife. Suddenly, Sam decided against asking. Dean turned. "What is it, Sammy?"

"Nothing." Sam tried his hardest to sound lighthearted. When Dean's face scrunched up like he knew Sam wasn't telling the truth, Sam cut off whatever he was going to say. "Look, it's not anything that would hurt either one of us. I'm going to... tell you when I'm ready."

Dean gave him a hard look. Sam discovered that with their uncovered love came a surprising sense of trust. "Okay," he conceded. "Just tell me when you're ready." Dean went back to cleaning the knives, and Sam let out a breath, smiling.

Almost a month later, they took a night off and decided to go on a date. A real, honest-to-god date. Dean jokingly suggested a carnival and laughed at Sam's bitchface. They ended up seeing some obnoxious horror movie in a theater, whispering about what idiots the main characters are and coming up with different ways to kill the damn monsters.

After coming out of the theater laughing, which earned them several strange looks, they took a walk around the local park, sprawling out on the field once the sun went down. Sam had a hand behind his head, staring up at the sky. As always, their fingers sat intwined between them.

Sam looked over at his brother, his strong profile outlined in the moonlight. Dean looked so relaxed, staring at the stars. "Dean," Sam murmured, unwilling to disturb the quiet.

Dean looked over, his eyes glinting in the darkness. "Yeah, Sammy?"

No, no. Not the right time, not in this little bubble of normalcy. "You're beautiful," he murmured, saving himself the what-are-you-not-telling-me look from Dean.

Dean smiled, real and genuine. "Stop, I'm blushing," he joked, but it held none of the self-deprecation it used to. Dean used to hate himself, used to be convinced that he could never be saved, but if someone so intelligent and perceptive and caring could love him... If _Sam_ could love him, then maybe he wasn't so bad.

Sam and Dean had a very, _very_ active sexual relationship. It was diverse too; sometimes they fucked each other senseless, and sometimes they made love. This particular evening after yet another month, they had done three rounds: one gentle, one rough, and one gentle again. Dean was propped up against the headboard with Sam's head in his lap, playing with his long hair. It was nearly three in the morning.

"Dean," Sam murmured. His brother looked down at him, and the look of content and satisfaction and love that he had seen so many times still made his breath hitch. Dean brushed his fingers across Sam's cheek and back up into his hair.

"Yeah, Sammy?"

His voice in moments like this make Sam want to cry. It was reserved for him and only him, in their private place. It was soft and smooth with the constant undercurrent of _I love you, I love you, I love you._ Sam sucked in a breath. This was it. This was the right time.

"Tell me about the dream again?" he asked, sitting up and retrieving something out of the pocket of his jeans that lay discarded on the night stand. Dean didn't notice the movement.

They both knew which dream Sam was referring to. Every so often, Sam would ask to hear the story of Dean's deepest desire that started their relationship. Dean chuckled and pulled the blanket more comfortably around their elevated torsos.

"Our house was beautiful," he began like he always did. "You were a big-shot lawyer and I designed awesome cars for a living. I found that out by looking through the mail and reading about myself in a magazine. It was so strange. You came home and through the haze of the djinn's poison, I still knew you, my Sammy." Sam couldn't help but kiss Dean when he rested his hand on Sam's leg. That took a few moments. "And after I got the gist of what was going on, you freakin' carried me to our bedroom," he continued with a smile.

Sam's heart thumped loudly in his chest. He hoped his nerves didn't show on his face- it was supposed to be a surprise. "Go on," he murmured.

"Well, as I've described in great detail to you, we slept together, and Sam, you were great in bed."

"_Were?_" Sam gave Dean a teasing look, which Dean reciprocated.

"Are. You're even better out here than you were in there." Dean stroked his thumb on his brother's leg over the blanket. "And afterwards-"

"Afterwards," Sam repeated. "Tell me exactly what happened."

"I asked if we were brothers, because we had the same last name, and you said no. You said we were married, and you showed me..." Dean trailed off, shock spread across his face.

Sam grasped his hand tightly, holding it up to show the glint of the ring he had just slipped on. His thumb ran over Dean's knuckles as his brother's mouth opened in surprise. "I showed you the wedding ring I had on," Sam recited. He held up another ring with his other hand, never letting Dean's hand go. "And the ring you were wearing too. In your dream, we weren't brothers, we were married." Sam swallowed the lump in his throat, taking in the glassy look in Dean's eyes. "Out here, we are brothers, but that doesn't have to be all."

Dean's mouth had closed, and understanding had replaced his shock. A tear slid down his cheek. "Will you marry me, Dean?" Sam asked. There were several moments of silence. Sam knew that Dean had no idea what to say.

Finally, Dean choked out, "Is that even legal?" and because of the emotional tension, both brothers burst out laughing, and then they were kissing, Dean doing his best to wipe up his tears. "That's all I want, Sammy," he whispered. Sam's tears were intermingled with Dean's. "That's what I've been dreaming about."

Sam slipped the ring on Dean's finger. They would get all the legal stuff sorted out eventually. Right then, Sam kissed Dean for all he was worth, all he wanted to be worth, and all he thought the beautiful man in his arms was worth. They had not once doubted the other's love after that first night, but the rings were a sign to everyone, to the world, the universe: Dean was Sam's, and Sam was Dean's, and nothing would ever change that.


End file.
